A Thousand Shards
by Nosta-Logic
Summary: From the seed of hope branches two veins: Power and Humility. Hate and Forgiveness. Good and Evil.
1. Default Chapter

This author's note is merely dedicated to proving that I, indeed, am not J.K Rowling.  
  
Title: A Thousand Shards  
  
Rating: R  
  
Characters: Centers on Snape.  
  
A/N: Before you begin to read my story, there are a few topics I would like to clear up, if only to avoid confusion. First, and foremost: THIS STORY IS RATED R FOR A REASON. It will involve large amounts of graphic torture, and angst to the best of my ability. If any of this makes you queasy, please leave. This story will contain no slash, and no pairing, but it will incorporate strong friendships. Secondly: THIS STORY WILL BECOME RELIGIOUS. I am a Christian, and I am using the gifts God gave me to share with others how I was saved by Him. This story is based on my own experiences in darkness, and how God gave me the light to see once more. Thirdly: I WILL NOT RESPOND VIA FANFICTION TO ANY REVIEWERS. You may use my E-mail (stated on my biography) if you have any questions, or just want to talk. I'm willing to listen. I do accept flames, but not mindless drabble on how sucky of a writer I am. Those will be for Satan to chew on in Hell.  
  
DISCLAIMER: Under no circumstances do I own Harry Potter, or any of its characters. I'm just finishing what J.K started.  
  
Well, guys, enjoy! 


	2. Sick With Hate

"Severussss, pet... why do you continue to disappoint your masssster...?"  
  
The waspish voice coursed violently through his ears, sending tremors of cold fear itching their way down his spine. He forced a proud, yet tentative voice to emerge forth, and answered the reincarnated devil with his best act in play.  
  
"Forgive me, O gracious, loving master... I have failed to retrieve the boy because of Dumbledore's paranoia..." He suppressed a feverish shiver, "The old man has not granted me the permission to confront Potter alone..." A cough itching to be released was swallowed hastily.  
  
Living Death was silent for a long while, in contemplation over obviously more important things. It was that, or a more vengeful contemplation on the best way to punish a failing servant. He stood; a breathing embodiment of every madness to grace the earth; and calmly placed his bloodless hand upon the still spy with unusual gentleness.  
  
"Demoted ssservant... you are ill..." His breathed, his lifeless exhalation wrapping like the snake that he was around the wizard's skull. Severus said nothing, for Living Death was not merciful when those he trusted spoke out of turn. He felt his face, his hidden face, tear pore by maddening pore from his flesh, and he saw the world in a misted haze. Destruction dripped drop by drop from the unheard snake's lips, and the lifeless hand descended to his shoulder.  
  
"Ssseverussss..."  
  
"Gracious, loving master..." He replied mechanically, his words slurred with the fever. A hope-filled bead of sweat fell to its death, smashing into one thousand pieces at his knees.  
  
"My pet... You love me, yesss...?" Ever-flowing in a constant swirl of pain, and madness...  
  
"Always, Gracious master, always..." His mind, body, and soul...  
  
"And you would put yourself to death to ssssave me, yesss...?"  
  
"Forgive me, my lord..." Simple, utter destruction...  
  
"Good."  
  
The hand curled joyfully into his shoulder, and the claws tore elegantly through the black satin cloth; ripping through flesh, ripping, ripping, ripping... He could not scream, for the pain was too bearable. Always pain, always, always, always....  
  
========FLASHBACK=========  
  
"Severus, are you alright? You seem ill." Hooch. They were in the teacher's lounge, discussing topics to further improve, and brighten the school grounds, such as colour-changing grasses, and painted classrooms. Hooch had whispered it to him. Severus had, in fact, been feeling ill all morning, but merely dismissed it as a common influenza. He'd go see Poppy later for a remedial potion, or something... For now, he had to consider various blackmail topics on hindering the infernal Dumbledore from convincing him to paint his perfectly nice classroom pink. If memory served him correctly, he still had that picture of Albus from last year's Christmas party...  
  
"Alright, then! We'll have Professor Sprout plant a few moss-eating daisies on the edges of the castle," Said Headmaster announced, "and the squid will be enchanted to turn purple when tickled!"  
  
At dinner that night, Severus still hadn't felt any better. His was plagued with chills, and even the thought of food caused a rather uncomfortable uprising in his stomach. The students were a hazy blur from his position at the Head Table, and their obnoxious banter wasn't helping any. He had left early for that reason only.  
  
The Headmaster had come by later that night, while Severus was working to the best of his ability to grade papers. The illness had only progressed from that time, and it took every strand of self-control within him to refrain from vomiting on his parchments. Dumbledore seemed to notice his distress, and kept their talk to a minimum.  
  
"Severus, my child, I think it best that I go fetch Madame Pomfrey. You seem very sick."  
  
"I am perfectly fine, Headmaster... perfectly fine..."  
  
"You gave Mr. Longbottom an A on his paper. No, I think I'll go fetch Pomfrey."  
  
"I hardly think-"  
  
And then, IT had happened. The summons of Living Death, and he had to leave, much against the wishes of His Royal Pain-in-the-arseness. If flushed memory served him correctly, it wasn't the best thing to do at the time...  
  
============  
  
And now tens, hundreds, maybe thousands of miles away from any inkling of mercy, he lay prostrate before the madman who was formerly known as Tom Riddle. A wizard who had once posed his goals on accomplishing the world peace so many others had dreamed of doing, but now hell-bent on killing an innocent boy named Harry Potter; the bane of his lifeless existence. A wizard currently hell-bent on completely dislocating Severus' shoulder.  
  
"Pet..." Living Death tilted into the spy's visage, and his tongue, venomous with hate, slid elegantly over his false servant's flushed jawline. His eyes, the very essence of madness, and greed, stared accusingly into Snape's. They betrayed the creature's passionless face.  
  
"You disappoint me, demoted slave..." His milky hand prowled gracefully up the spy's chalky neck, leaving a trail of unhindered death in its wake. It traced his flushed cheekbones, and tenderly swept a straggling piece of inky hair back to its designated place; then the arthritic fingers kissed his jaw, and cupped it as a lover would.  
  
"But we can make it better..."  
  
Snape, who had drifted into a misty bliss, was suddenly jolted awake by a powerful SNAP. He cringed, realizing how badly a betraying Death Eater would be punished by his master if he was ever to be discovered, and obviously, someone had been found. A previously unknown well of pity leaked from his icy heart, for this Death Eater would definitely receive a ruthless penalization from his fellows. Wait...  
  
Why was he moving?  
  
Severus opened a bloodshot eye, and found the form of his mad lord fading slowly from his vision. Pettigrew stood beside him; a worthless rat compared to the awesome powers of that man... and yet, he was smirking. Severus' arms were locked above his head, and as he opened his mouth to speak, he realized that his jaw refused to budge. Oh dear... it seemed as though he had been found.  
  
At least the basic necessities of his anticipated passing had been completed. No will to write, and no funeral to contrive... The problem was, though, that Severus was not ready to die. He wanted to live. He wanted to touch the sun, and steal the moon. He wanted to feel happiness at Death's own demise, and shout it to the world. He wanted to be free of his prison cell, and love again.  
  
In a complete, and fevered hysteria, Snape began to struggle. His captured arms, held by Crabbe, and Goyle Senior, exploited their utmost strength, and his lower body thrashed upon the dank wooden floor of Riddle Manor. His raw throat worked, and, though his broken jaw urged against it, he screamed every loose obscenity in every language at that shadowed grim standing there with his pet mouse. Living Death, however, looked about to burst into tearful laughter.  
  
And as the two monstrous thugs dragged the screaming spy into the darker recesses of his birthplace, Lord Voldemort expelled a rather playful chuckle, and seated himself on his silver throne. Peter retracted weakly beside him, his hands working furiously in a tight knot as if this action discharged his nervous tension.  
  
"Well, my lovely..." He stared bemusedly ahead, into the darkness of the unknown corners of his childhood, and crossed his paper-thin legs in a dignified fashion.  
  
"We must inform the old man..." His spidery fingers crossed, and served as a resting place for his chin, "Fetch some paper, and a quill, dear rat..."  
  
And Wormtail did so.


	3. Torinquet

They continued well into the bowels of Riddle Manor, through doors shrouded in dark magic, and invisible walls Snape had no idea were there to begin with. The said Potion Master had long-since contained his violent outburst, favoring a more subtle observation of the dark corridors, and seemingly endless lines of cell doors. He would not deny that he was utterly exhausted, and spurring himself on even more would only worsen the sickness and fever fate had subjected him to. Experience, and hastily exterminated fear told him that to survive, he would need to cooperate with his better side; a hard thing to do, considering that the spy was in a fifty-fifty freeway between shock, and utter madness.  
  
Still, Crabbe and Goyle continued on with their cargo, hardly acknowledging the many broken cracks, and uplifted earth they were subjecting their master's pet to. Severus had to admit that the two thugs, however dim- witted they seemed, were actually quite brilliant, unlike their Slytherin spawn. The two, in fact, had a rather fine nack for 'deliberate torture', and Snape had no doubt in his mind that they would be the ones reaping information from him. However, in the off-chance that Living Death would prefer an excruciatingly painful, yet short end to the diseased spy, he would send in Avery to deal with him. This conclusion left Severus with small chills. He had seen what Avery, the madman, did to his muggle victims, and the thought alone was enough to panic anybody.  
  
Further, and further down they traveled, dragging the ill wizard behind them, passing more rows of cells, where whispers of the nameless dead stirred like tame whirlpools from the walls. Snape heard their voices, crying for mercy, and the violent screams of children as they were torn limb from limb. Whether they died by magic, or werewolves, it was undecided, and the spy felt it best to be left that way. He knew, of course, that Living Death had a wide arsenal of dark creatures ready to do his bidding, but whether or not he would use them on his newest addition to the Riddle household was undecided.  
  
Riddle Manor... it was actually a rather lovely setting in its better days, with its seaside scape (the entire thing was situated on the edge of a cliff) and many blossoming flowers (which had long-since died from lack of care). Now, it was a shabby mansion, rumored by the nearby muggle residents to be haunted. Little wonder... a deaf man could hear the screams coming from this place at night. Severus did not doubt that his voice would be one of them.  
  
Finally, what would presumably seem like five-hundred feet below ground level, the two thugs stopped with their captive in tow, and straightened. Crabbe left Goyle's side with his wand raised at eye level, and pressed it to the slimy cell door with tentative caution.  
  
"Boss give you a key...?" He questioned gruffly. The larger of the two fished his pocket thoroughly, and removed a silver skull-key, upon which Crabbe held out a grubby hand for. Goyle handed it to him without complaint.  
  
The lock snapped; expected, for it was half-disintegrated with rust, and... other things. Severus watched in detached interest as the burly wizard pressed roughly on the iron entree, which shrieked loudly with disapproval. It was obvious that this cell had not been used in many a year.  
  
A blast of cold air, flavoring deeply of moss, sea-salt, and a highly disgusting odor pervaded the trio's senses. The odor was foul, and all-too- familiar for the spy's liking. Snape knew that scent, though. He knew it off the back of his hand, despite the fact that he had not smelt it in over nineteen years.  
  
"Sorry about this, Sev..." Goyle apologized, "but you gave him no choice..." Severus barely had time to register this comment before the beefy hand had left his clammy skin, and he was toppling over himself down a flight of steps. Over, and over, and over until his limp body crashed unresistingly onto the stone floor.  
  
He lay there for a long time, entangled with himself in an unceremonious heap, afraid to open his eyes for fear of what he might see. The smell was absolutely gagging; he couldn't breathe. His subconscious muse informed him that it was because his diaphragm was blocked by one of his spindly hands.  
  
With stiff, suppressed movement, the bundle of joyless robes stirred, and amongst the dark fabric, flashes of pale flesh could be seen groping along the ashlar confinements. Snape hesitantly opened one dark, unscathed eye, and it flickered nervously around the (as he was surprised to discover) slightly lighted cell. On the slime-encrusted wall directly in front of the unmoving spy was a small, heavily barred window, which granted a small amount of sodium-yellow moonlight to penetrate the inky blackness.  
  
It was rather large, actually. More of a basement than anything else. In an attempt at investigating further, Severus raised a bony hand, expecting to curl his fingers around a protruding stone, or dripping chain, but instead latched on to something soft... and spongy...  
  
Daring; just daring himself to look, the ill wizard craned his neck ever-so- slightly, his joints popping with undesired movement; the silence screaming, his mind whirling; doubtless accounts of death, pain, suffering, madness churning through his brain, but nothing; nothing in this mortal, retched world could compare to a thing as insanely terrible as what Severus Snape's eyes laid upon now. THIS was what he had been smelling.  
  
A man. A muggle man, still dressed in customary business attire; unscathed, and unmarred hung several inches above the rocky floor by a crude noose wrapped unceremoniously about his white. Decaying. Neck.  
  
Severus' breath hitched painfully, and his bowels piled into mush at the rock bottom level of his stomach. His brain screamed to move, and his chest felt as though it would shatter into thousands of pieces, but his body remained immobile. He could not tear his gaze away from that innocent man's melting, rotting face, and the china-eyes illuminated by the meager light. He could not fathom what had driven Living Death to tear an innocent muggle from his home; chain him to a wall, and leave him to die. To rot. To decay amongst scavengers who cared little for the condition of food sources.  
  
Merely the sight, combined with a raging virus, and a violent fever, provoked Severus to throw himself into a corner, and expel any inkling of nourishment he had received over the last few hours; a difficult thing considering that his jaw was, doubtlessly, broken. He pressed his burning brow against the cool, damp wall, inviting himself to refrain from staring at that mutilated corpse once more, and to receive any sort of relief from this ravaging disease.  
  
He had to be strong. For his Slytherins. For Hogwarts. For Dumbledore. He had to be strong...

* * *

"Please, Albus... drink some tea."  
  
Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft, and Wizardry, the most brilliant, and powerful man of his time, and one of the few last hopes of defeating Voldemort, felt anything but a want to drink tea. He was worried, frightened, stressed, and nauseated all at the same inopportune moment, but then, he had to remind himself, so was the girl in front of him.  
  
A few hours after Severus had left for his meeting, Professor Sinistra had come knocking upon his door, merely acknowledging the Headmaster's tense situation, and to share a word about her fellow friend. She, among the precious few in the wizarding world, had gained a gift far more comparable to any material item from the enigmatic man known as Severus Snape, and that gift happened to be his trust. Only she, and Dumbledore shared his lasting friendship.  
  
Albus fondly remembered how, on that bleak December night, she had tentatively inquired about his health on the astronomy tower, after seeing him at a teacher's conference looking rather pale, and sickly. Under any normal circumstance, Severus would have snapped, and rudely dismissed anyone who dare pry into his personal life, but he merely told her that a rather nasty influenza was going around. That in itself had been a small miracle.  
  
Weeks after the incident, they shared short conversations at the staff table, asking about recent goings-on, and shared tea in the lounge, while the Headmaster looked on with a smile, knowing that their tentative acquaintance was blossoming into a full-grown friendship. Soon (at least in a Snape-ish case, which was about a year), the enigmatic wizard revealed to Sinistra that on the astronomy tower, he had not really been ill with the flu, but that his heart had been acting badly upon him again.  
  
Severus, though quite strong, and fit, had a rare heart disease, which often opened him up to a great risk of infection, and prolonged cases of exhaustion. He could not take any sort of healing potion, or regenerative draft for fear that it would spur him on into a full-blown heart attack, which (if we return to the very beginning of this problem), was the reason for Albus' fear.  
  
Dumbledore looked up at his fellow colleague, and smiled sadly, the twinkle in his eyes long-gone.  
  
"No, thank you, Sylvia. I am afraid that my passion for tea has been snuffed for the moment."  
  
The young woman nodded quietly, setting her own tea at the arm of her chair. Moonlight reached like a long-fingered hand into the spacious office, and illuminated the sleeping Fawkes on his wishbone perch. She was aware, of course, for the reason of her mentor's fear, for she knew that her friend was a spy for the brighter side of the world. She respected him for that. Albus, and Severus, both; for each would doubtlessly die for the other without a second thought.  
  
A wry smile pulled coyly at Sinistra's lips as she nursed her drink slowly. She was not a beautiful girl by any means; her brow was too high, her face too oval, and her raven hair much too thin, but her appearance didn't bother her in the least. It didn't bother Severus, either. In fact, it was more of a mutual, unattractive base that they shared. She found him striking in a peculiar, dark way, and he found her fetching in a gentle, motherly manner. Actually, it was tomorrow (Saturday) that they had planned to go to Hogsmeade, and share a dinner at one of the finer restaurants. Of course, it would have to be cancelled. Severus would, in all likelihood, be in no condition to enjoy a night out.  
  
"How long do the meetings normally last, Albus?" Sinistra questioned softly. The Headmaster laid his chin in his hand for a moment, then answered just as softly;  
  
"They can last from one hour to one week... never more than that, though. If Severus does not return by Monday's eve, then I shall send a search party to look for him."  
  
Silence.  
  
"And what if... what if you can't find him...?"  
  
A pause.  
  
"Then pray to whatever deity there is out there that the child comes back safely..."


	4. Realization

Morning arrived at Hogwarts without any great disturbances (lest one counts finding Nevielle Longbottom outside the Gryffindor dormitory after AGAIN forgetting the weekly password), and at exactly six o' clock, the massive doors to the Great Hall were opened. Gradually, students filed in, and sat at their respectable tables, waiting patiently (with the exception of Ron Weasley) for their breakfast, and chattering about recent happenings in their hidden world. At seven, the teachers were all seated at their seats before the students, and, with a wave of the Headmaster's hand, the food appeared.  
  
Hermione Granger, the currently leading know-it-all of Hogwarts, remained stone-still in her seat, pouring over the Daily Prophet, and absentmindedly fingering her toast with distracted fingers. Harry Potter, savior of the wizarding world, and Ron Weasley, destroyer of all edible material, nattered on about Quidditch, and the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend, which happened to be the very reason of their existence, hardly noticing when Hermione let a startled gasp.  
  
"Mione?" Harry questioned after realizing this. When she did not answer, his emerald eyes moved to her newspaper, and then widened in surprise. Across the front page was a huge headline;

**SEVEN MUGGLE HOMES DESTROYED;  
DARK MARK FOUND HOVERING ABOVE SCENE**

Without further question, Harry directed his gaze to the head table, where every professor accounted present... except one.  
  
Fear suddenly taking hold of him, the wizard turned to his happily eating friend, and grabbed his shoulders roughly. "Ron, Snape's not here..."  
  
A befuddled stare took hold of the redhead's face for a moment, then his face split into an absolutely monstrous grin. "Not here?! ALRIGHT!" He began to dance in his seat like an elated child, happily whooping with joy. Irritated, Harry grabbed his shoulders again, snatched the paper from a peeved Hermione, and shoved it in his freckled face. "LOOK!" He whispered loudly.  
  
A bit angry at the interruption, Ron pettishly ran his eyes over the paper, then narrowed them. "So?"  
  
"So?! If you've forgotten already, Snape just HAPPENS to be connected with Voldemort (flinch) AND the Order!"  
  
Realization dawned on the young teenager's face. "He's bloody backstabbed us!!!" He said a bit too loudly. A few heads turned in their direction. Hermione nervously waved them off before joining her friends. "Not necessarily..." She whispered, "it could have been an unplanned raid... or..." In a sudden burst of intrigue, she grabbed the paper, with its headline picture of a burning muggle home, and her chocolate eyes widened to breaking point. "Oh no..."  
  
"What, Hermione?!" Ron cried softly, his face a mixture of fascination, and fear. The witch slowly turned the picture to them, her jaw trembling as she pointed to a small blob behind the house. The two boys leaned forward. On closer inspection, they found that it was no blob, but two men, and a child. One of the two wore a silky black cloak, and a faceless porcelain mask, which shimmered slightly in the counterfeit firelight.  
  
Before any of them could say anything about this, the sky opened with the fluttering of hundreds of tawny wings, and it began to rain letters. As one owl swept past Harry's head, he ducked to avoid it, but also noticed a rather perturbed black hawk of some sort screeching at the Headmaster, who looked both surprised, and... fearful?  
  
Dumbledore stared dumbly at the bird, holding out a plain black letter, sealed tightly with the emblem of a blood-red snake. With shaking fingers, he untied it from the hawk's foot, and watched the item as if it was a time bomb waiting to blow into hundreds of pieces. _A trap. Dark magic. He is only trying to trick you into a false sense of security... but there isn't any magic on this letter... except...  
_  
He turned it over, and, in elegant, snakelike handwriting, the words singed themselves into the black paper.  
  
_To Headmaster Albus Dumbledore of Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft, and Wizardry:  
_  
Albus watched, too frightened, and anxious to move, as more words burned into the letter. Every eye was upon him.  
  
_Hello, Albus... I believe we can skip petty intervals, and greetings, and cut right into the proverbial cake... although, a cake is definitely more than what I'll be cutting into very shortly. You see, I currently hold within my possession, a rather... sneaky snake I smoked out of its hole last night. Any guesses? None? Come, come, Albus! You really are getting senile, aren't you? Ah, well... I suppose it can't be helped. If you really are as smart as everyone throws you out to be, then perhaps you would have stopped sending your little rat snake back into the cobra's lair every time you had the chance... a pity. He really was quite the sneak... had me fooled for quite some time. Dear, dear Severus... he is quite ill, you know. Dirtying my humble abode with his spilled waste, and whatnot... but, in turn, it is making you, oh great and powerful one, a bit weaker each time... who knows when I'll strike next? Better keep precious Potter locked up in his little safe hole, now, won't we? Well, then... adeu, old friend... until next time_.  
  
Albus stared in utter disbelief as two words formed at the bottommost right corner in red, dripping blood. Tom Riddle. Tom Riddle. Voldemort. The Dark Lord. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. A student. A wizard. An orphan.  
  
Without realizing it, the old headmaster had raised himself to his feet, and stared at the black parchment with tears shimmering in his eyes. He faced the students, his children, gripping the last piece of his dark child he had left, and with a heavy voice, said;  
  
"Potion classes... have been cancelled until further notice..."  
  
There was an eerie hush which fell upon the Great hall at that moment. Movement was devoid, and not even Nevielle breathed. All eyes were upon Albus Dumbledore as he solemnly closed his grave, blue eyes, and, with his shoulders shaking, exited from sight.  
  
Silence reigned for a long, excruciating moment before McGonagall stood, and cleared her throat.  
  
"Prefects, escort your classmates back to your respectable dormitories, and stay there until further notice." There was a slight waver in her voice. Nobody moved.  
  
"WELL?!"  
  
Immediately, the Prefects jumped up, and, fearing the wrath of the deputy headmistress, collected their fellow classmates, and made off to their rooms.  
  
Harry couldn't explain it, but, despite the adrenaline pumping through him, he felt inexplicably tired...

* * *

God, it was cold...  
  
Severus coughed wetly, and tightened his thin robe about his shoulders. How long had it been? Hours? Days? Weeks? The sunlight poisoned his black attire, but did nothing to stop the November chill from penetrating his thin, starved body. Strangely enough, the ex-spy had yet to taste the bitter agony of torture, for there had been no one entering his lonely basement to extract the harsh punishment of betrayal upon him yet.  
  
His black eyes roamed the dark corners, where red-eyed rats stared hungrily at their new prey, waiting for that moment when he would lose his grip on reality, and they could scurry in for the kill. Obviously, the foul corpse hanging from the ceiling was too high for them to reach. Severus sighed, and rustled his aching joints, wondering in a blinding daze if his life was to end just like that rotting mass'. Starved... alone... regret for his past sins...? He wondered what the Order thought of this... knowing Dumbledore, he'd send a merry band of rescuers into this presumably abandoned house of one-thousand corpses, even against Snape's wishes, and fall right into the trap Living Death had planned for them.  
  
God, it was cold...  
  
A freezing wind squeezed through the bars of his tiny window, and wrapped about Severus in a frigid embrace. He hated November... not because it was cold, but because the seventeenth of the bloody month was his bloody birthday. _Nice way to celebrate the anniversary of my godforsaken existence._ He thought waspishly. _Alone in a damned hell-hole with no hope of ever seeing living company again.  
_  
Averting his tired gaze, he stared at the rotting corpse which he had so lovingly named Caedus, and his lip curled slightly in disgust. _What did you ever do to them? Am I going to join you soon? _The wind sighed gently, and pushed bits of ancient soil across the stone floor, as if a mother beckoning her wobbling toddler into her arms. Severus wished he had a mother. To know what it felt like to be loved, and cared for and coddled and hugged when he cried. To give healing kisses when he fell, and got hurt. To sing pretty lullabies before he drifted off to sleep...  
  
Severus smiled slightly. She would be tall, and have the most beautiful violet eyes... her skin would be lily white, and her lips a quiet red, at the ready for bedtime kisses... her hair would be silky black, and long... long enough to reach her waist...  
  
He had never known a family. His mother had died in childbirth, leaving him with little sympathy from his father. If it was not for his kindly neighbor, Margaret, he probably would have died before the age of one, considering that his dear old dad was either in Knockturn alley, drinking, or passed out on the floor at home. There was little difference between the two. Severus, however, was no fool. He had taken his first steps at the age of barely nine months, and said his first sentence at one and a half. Margaret had considered him a genius, and constantly purchased books for his growing mind; and then, when Severus turned five, she died.  
  
It was a rather... _demoting_ experience growing up with Snape Senior, to say the least. Drunken battles ensued when he returned home from a night out with firewhiskey, and the belt was involved often. Enraged by the drink, he would whip Severus into a stupor, constantly repeating to him what a _damnable, worthless mistake_ he was, and _a murderer on the lowest of low branches_.  
  
Unfortunately, his son had believed it.  
  
There was no sympathy anywhere he went. Not at Hogwarts, not at home, and, after a few years, not even in pain. He had no friends, and no 'legitimate' family; no comfort, and no solace. He had tried to cry on numerous occasions, but Severus couldn't cry. He had never cried in his life, and he didn't know how. Even when the Marauders beat him under a broken sink; even when Lupin had nearly killed him; even when Voldemort had performed the searing spell of fire up his arm, Severus did not cry.  
  
'I can't cry...' He whispered as he stared at Caedus, 'I can't cry for you, or Him, or me... I can't cry for them, or it, or me... I can't, I can't, I can't...'  
  
And thus, he chanted until a fitful sleep overtook him.


End file.
